


Icarus

by RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow



Series: Lyrically Inspired [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking Problem, F/M, Feuilly is underated, Inspired by Music, M/M, Pining Grantaire, life change, suicidal thoughts (very very brief)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:32:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow/pseuds/RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He argues with Enjolras all the time but sometimes Enjolras just goes too far. And Grantaire knows it's wrong that he forgives him easily every time so maybe it's time for a change. Time to stop getting burnt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Icarus

**Author's Note:**

> From the moment I first heard 'Icarus' by Bastille it's been a song that, in my mind, has suited how Grantaire acts and is around Enjolras above any other song. I wrote this for this semester's final creative writing piece at uni using alternative names and slightly different plot and characterisation but at heart it was always an E/R piece in my mind. I hope you enjoy. Thanks for stopping by to check it out :D

Grantaire knows it’s self-destructive; he doesn’t need the reminder from _him_. But this isn’t something he can turn off like a tap (on the contrary, the tap is part of the problem). It would take more willpower than he’s got to give up drinking, he decides as the barkeep slides another glass of rum and coke towards him. Grantaire sips his drink in slow, appreciative mouthfuls knowing he doesn’t have cash to spare on another. It’s his fifth for the night after all. Not enough, though. He’s not even tipsy.

He forces himself to his feet once he’s done, and tosses money for the drinks on the bar before, hunching his shoulders against the oncoming chill, Grantaire pushes his way out the door. The night has already enveloped the streets in darkness and streetlights flicker feebly down onto the wet road, reflecting off of puddles. His breath comes out in white clouds before him, not helping the itch he’s feeling for a cigarette. _One craving at a time, Grantaire,_ he tells himself as he drags his feet along the pavement.

Laughter drifts out from bars lining the street, and the sour stench of alcohol, sweat and tobacco taunt him as he passes. He picks up his pace, driven by the thought of a bottle of cheap wine hidden in his kitchen cupboard, more enticing even than the warmth awaiting him in his apartment. In his haste, he knocks someone’s shoulder as they pass. When he turns to apologize, the stranger’s blond hair reminds Grantaire of _him_. His pace increases once more, trying to outrun the memory. But it catches up with him.

 

_The blond head turns in his direction as he slams his emptied cup down on the table, letting his chair squeak irritatingly under his shifting weight. Grantaire is all too aware of the concerned eyes trained on him from around the room but he’s only interested in the ones watching him with impatience. Grantaire knows he’s itching to have a go at him and watches with amusement as he tries to keep it contained. Beside Grantaire, Jehan touches his shoulder gently: a warning. It’s ignored as Grantaire pours himself another drink._

_‘How many is that? Seven?’ the blond finally snaps and Grantaire allows himself a small, victorious smile._

_‘It is indeed, Enjolras. I’m touched that you’re keeping track,’_

_‘Please, everyone in this room watches you like a hawk every time you pour another. Any one of them could tell you how many you’ve had.’ The rest of their friends avert their gaze. Oblivious to the awkward atmosphere, Enjolras charges right ahead, ‘And do you know why? It’s because you have a problem that’s going to lead to an alcohol induced death one of these days- mark my words. So we’re all watching you, wondering how long you have left. You’re self-destructing, Grantaire, and it’s disgusting that we have to watch,’_

Grantaire had shrugged it off, as he usually did, and made some jibe about Enjolras needing to take the stick out from up his ass, but inside he was burning with shame. Of course he doesn’t want them to feel worried for him; he doesn’t exactly _like_ the path he’s on in life. He wishes he never fell into this hole, the one he fell into so early in life that he’s lost any hope of getting out. So why bother trying? Life sucks and no one can change that. Grantaire’s just playing the hand he’s been dealt and if that involves drinking himself to death, well, he’s accepted that.

It’s not the fact that his friends know he has a problem that upset him, though. Grantaire knows how they talk about him; he’s heard the anxious words they pass between themselves about his mental and physical health. The thing that disturbed him about this was that someone had the guts to tell him to his face, not gently either. And coming from Enjolras made it even worse.

As much as Grantaire tries to hide it, the fiery blond’s opinion is the one that matters most to him. Despite being older than Enjolras, Grantaire has looked up to him since they met. Not because he sees him as a role model or anything, he just likes watching his passion, likes watching someone who gets things done, even if Grantaire doesn’t believe in his causes. He’s his polar opposite, someone who cares about _everything_ and needs to fix all problemswhere Grantaire cares about few things in life and sees nothing but futility in trying to improve things. And, somehow, Grantaire finds that completely captivating. Which is why, when Enjolras was the one to point out the problem, Grantaire internally flinched at that fix-things focus being turned on him. He is _not_ one of Enjolras’ problems to be put right with hard work and optimism.

Grantaire shoves those thoughts aside as he finally reaches the door of his apartment. With shaking hands, he fumbles the key into the lock, scratching more of the paint off as he does, and lets himself into the house. Without taking time to shrug off his jacket he heads for the kitchen cupboard. But it’s empty of wine, or any other mind numbing beverages that might have replaced it. In fact, it’s empty of anything. He groans in frustration as he’s forced to admit that he must have drank the bottle and forgot about it in his drunken state. Not the first time that’s happened.

He claws at his cigarette pack and lights up to calm himself, but he knows the nicotine will do nothing to drown the thoughts that run amok in his mind. Ash falls to the floor, unheeded. The only option he has left is his art.

With an air of resignation, Grantaire begins gathering his paints and easel together and packs them into the trunk of his car. The engine makes the familiar choking sound when he turns the key but it warms up quickly and clunks obligingly enough as he puts it into gear. He drives about 20 minutes out of town until deciding to set up at the top of hill.

It’s not a breathtaking view but it’s fine for his purposes. The rocks that surround the small clearing at the edge of the hill give him some privacy and it’s far enough from the city to allow for both buildings and rolling hills to be included in the landscape spread before him.

Grantaire sits for a while, waiting for some aspect to capture his attention and allowing time for the familiar itch to paint to consume him. As the first streaks of sun lighten the sky he decides on watercolour. It’s not his usual choice of medium but it’s suitable for the layer of wet mist that blankets his surroundings. He positions his easel and begins to paint.

Each movement is predictable: he dips his thin brush into water, expels the excess moisture into the air beside him with a flick of his wrist, swirls the brush lightly around in the coloured pigment and brings it back up to the canvas to fill in the picture with easy, reverent strokes. The work is methodical and numbing, and it’s not long before Grantaire is completely immersed. His thoughts peacefully dulled at the back of his mind.

 

 

When Grantaire pulls up outside his building Feuilly is waiting for him, leaning casually against brick wall. He pushes himself upright as Grantaire gets out of the car and begins unpacking his art supplies.

‘Where have you been? I checked all your usual bars before some guy told me you’d left at around 2 this morning. I was worried about you when I didn’t find you home,’ Feuilly says as soon as he reaches him. Grantaire ignores him and continues up the stairs to his flat, letting Feuilly follow if he so chooses.

_I was worried about you_. The words echo around Grantaire’s head as he puts his gear away and shoves the dirt cheap can of beer he picked up on his way home in the fridge. He’s tempted to down it right now but knows Feuilly will likely berate him endlessly for it, judging by his current mood.

When Grantaire returns to the living room he finds his friend inspecting the canvas he’s just been working on. It’s junk and he’s annoyed that Feuilly took it out from beneath the pile of stuff he’d deliberately left on top.

‘You were out painting?’ he asks, turning to look at Grantaire who’s splayed himself out on the stained couch.

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ he replies. A smile softens the bite of his words, but Feuilly knows him well enough to recognise the irritation hidden under his sarcasm. He leaves the canvas and sits himself down on the couch, forcing Grantaire to make room.

'It is honestly very beautiful, R,' he says after a moment. Grantaire ignores him again, waiting for Feuilly to cut to the chase. 'Are you ok? Because I know hearing that from Enjolras, of all people, would have put you in... a funk.' Ah, there it is. _I was worried about you_.

Grantaire sighs heavily. Trying to convey how much he does _not_ want to be having this conversation. But Feuilly is having none of it. He turns to face him and waits for Grantaire to give him his attention. He does. Grudgingly.

'This,' Feuilly indicates to the canvas leaning against the wall, 'Is a good response. I thought I was gonna have to drag your drunken ass out of a ditch last night. Instead you pull up looking almost serene.' He looks so fucking proud as he says it. It makes Grantaire feel sick and he recedes back into his nonchalant facade.

'Yeah well, it wasn't by choice believe me. Didn't have the money to spend on booze. This was my only option'

'It’s your best option,' Feuilly interrupts, almost fiercely. Then his face relaxes and he sighs, pushing himself off the couch.

He turns briefly to say 'I know you don't like me saying this, because you think that Enjolras is the only thing in life worth believing in, but... Being around him is just hurting you. People are fickle, R, and Enjolras is no exception. You keep pushing him and he’ll push back harder. You’ll end up being the one getting burnt. You should get away. For a while at least. Find meaning in life outside of Enjolras.' He leaves Grantaire with those words and the nagging feeling that he's right. Grantaire's quick to drown out that thought.

He wakes up on his couch with a kink in his neck and his clothes damp. Grantaire groans as he sits up, rubs his hands roughly across his unshaven face and blinks the bleariness from his eyes. The shabby room around him gradually comes into focus. Yellowing walls, the window that has probably never been washed and the TV in the corner that he’d found on the side of the road. The red numbers on the TV set inform him that it’s 3:15 in the afternoon.

He gropes his wet t-shirt in confusion before spying the beer can lying empty beside him. Grantaire snorts; bought with the last bit of money he could possibly spare and he didn’t even stay awake long enough to finish it. He pulls the shirt off and throws it in the corner as he heads to the shower.

Grantaire’s phone is ringing when he leaves the bathroom, dark, tangled curls dripping droplets of water onto his fresh t-shirt. It’s Jehan, Grantaire’s friend since childhood. He ignores it. He knows exactly what overly empathetic Jehan wants to talk about and he’s not interested. _I was worried about you._

Stuffing his phone into his pocket, heavy with unanswered texts from concerned friends, Grantaire grabs his sketchbook and heads back to the hill. He liked how he felt there, liked the lack of feeling.

But it’s different in the daylight. He realizes as soon as he arrives. The absence of shadow and depth in the view is unnerving and it leaves Grantaire uninspired. His sketchbook tossed aside, he wanders the top of the hill listlessly. There’s a cliff on one side. The hill’s completely broken away and the remnants of fallen earth have turned to rubble at the bottom of the drop. The height makes Grantaire dizzy and he takes a step back from the edge. The view on this side of the hill leads into the country. Fields, in various shades of winter, stretch out before him infinitely. Bleak and breathtaking.

He’s familiar with one of the winding roads down there. They’d followed it on a road-trip to the sea once, him and his friends. It had been one of the best weekends of his life, just after high school had ended. It was the first time Grantaire felt truly optimistic about his future. It draws a bitter smile onto his face, thinking about it now, and he wishes he could go back and tell himself not to get his hopes up.

Looking at his future now is like looking at the daily entries in a diary he doesn’t keep. The same things happening day after monotonous day until he eventually dies. Pointless. Boring. _Some people would just end it_ , he thinks, _on a cliff like this_.

For a moment, Grantaire allows himself to imagine it. He takes a few steps forward till there’s nothing beneath him and suddenly he’s flying. Icy tendrils of air whip up at him, tugging on his hair and clothes, but he falls through with his eyes closed. He can almost feel the ground below as he draws closer to it, has only moments to wonder if it’ll hurt-

His phone vibrates in his pocket and Grantaire opens his eyes, the illusion shattered. He shakes his head in frustration. He would never actually do it, he already puts his friends through enough.

Heading back to the other side of the hill, Grantaire opens the text. It’s from Enjolras: _Look, Grantaire, I’m sorry. Can we talk?_ And Grantaire has to smile because he’s not actually sorry for what he said. Sorry for how he said it perhaps, but not for saying it. Yet the fact that he apologized at all is enough to gain him forgiveness. Which is what happens every time Enjolras takes it a step too far during their arguments. It’s too easy.

Grantaire can play out the conversation they would have in his head as easily as if he were actually there. Enjolras, while not looking outwardly remorseful, would be quieter than usual and awkward. Before he could even open his mouth to start apologizing or giving excuses or whatever Grantaire would cut in and tell him that ‘it’s fine and there’s really nothing to explain’. They would chat about idle things for a while before they broke off to go back to what they do in their normal lives, away from each other. And that short tête-à-tête would be enough to leave Grantaire feeling as if he had been touched by fire, warm and maybe a bit inspired but not burnt. Not yet. Not till their next argument. 

And the cycle would continue. So of course Grantaire has to leave. This fascination and reliance on a single human being is difficult and wrong and it’s not helping Grantaire move on in life at all. He’s too busy watching Enjolras succeeding in his life to better his own. And sure, maybe he could fix things without leaving. His friends would be more than happy to help but… as soon as he leaves this hill he’ll probably slip back into his old ways rather than try to change. He’s too stuck in his old habits to go back down there and mingle with his friends as a newly changed man after 20 minutes on a hill.

Feuilly was right: he needs to get away. But not just for a while. He needs to leave and start again. And if he doesn’t do it now he knows nothing will ever change. It’s the right choice.

With a trembling hand, that has nothing to do with his sobriety, Grantaire lets his thumb hover over Enjolras’ name in the contacts on his phone before pressing down.

Delete.

 

 *** 

Early the next morning he’s on his way. For once in his life everything works out perfectly. His landlord has been paid for the rest of the month and his boss was already looking for reasons to get rid of him so his resignation went down a treat. He only lets Feuilly and Jehan come and see him off, and even then he only lets them come a half an hour before he leaves. Everything he possesses is packed in a car by then and there is no going back. And, yeah, it hurts to see their grim (if understanding) faces in his rear view mirror, but Grantaire forces himself to look away, focuses on the road and keeps driving. Time to leave, even if he can’t change. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have ideas for future chapters but am still unsure about whether or not to include them. Sooooo if you're interested then keep an eye out??? thanks so much for reading!


End file.
